


Outlast: Subzero

by misomi_rei



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Cold Weather, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Frostbite, Injury, M/M, Psychosis, Sickness, Some Feminization, loveable Eddie (as always), some Chris/Miles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-06-01 14:29:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6523888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misomi_rei/pseuds/misomi_rei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[On hiatus] "Who in their right mind thought it was a good idea to start a riot in the dead of winter?"</p><p>Trapped in an insane asylum after a whistleblower attempt goes awry, Waylon Park must find a way to outlast the cruel temperatures and escape in one piece. Upon stumbling into The Groom's territory, Waylon finds himself feeling warmth he shouldn't be, and escaping isn't the most prominent thing on his mind.</p><p>At least, not until he meets Miles Upshur. And even then, he isn't sure about following through with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cold

Waylon blew on his hands for the umpteenth time in an attempt to warm them up. Who in their right mind thought it was a good idea to start a riot in the dead of winter? Oh, who was he kidding, no one in this godforsaken place was in their right mind, it was an insane asylum for crying out loud. If he had to be painfully honest, neither was he, because it was his stupid ass that decided to take the job at Mount Massive in the first place. Sure, it had great pay, gave him room and board, and covered all of his other necessities, but it had an eerie, foreboding presence and gave you jitters just by looking at it.

 Nothing could have prepared him for the hell on earth that lied behind those doors, and it broke loose once the riot began. Waylon wasn't sure if it was a security breach or a slip up, but whatever it was, it cost everyone their lives.

 Well, almost everyone.

 He still remembered the cringe-inducing sound of his laptop screen shattering when Jeremy dropped it. That bastard. He was trying to cover up the atrocities that went on at Mount Massive for profit purposes. Typical. But who knew, maybe a Variant had killed Jeremy. Hopefully.

 He had tried to expose the truth, but apparently Jeremy didn't appreciate that and Waylon was enrolled in the Morphogenic Engine program. The riot had saved him from the horrific aftereffects, as most of the machinery was being shut down or destroyed, but he still wasn't happy about it. Not one bit.

 And now there he was, huddled in the corner of an empty bedroom, camcorder at his side and a blanket around his chilled body. Adrenaline alone wasn't enough to keep him from freezing to death.

 He knew he couldn't stay there, as much as he would've liked to; there was an exit somewhere, and he had to find it. But it was nerve-wracking to think of the many possible ways he could die while looking.

 Bludgeoned or stabbed to death by a Variant, he could slip on a puddle of blood while running and bust his head open, The Walrider might catch him, he could contract frostbite, or worse: hypothermia. Finding a nice vent to freeze inside of sounded like the optimum option, but becoming a human popsicle was the last thing on his agenda. He wasn't sure it was bravery, spine, or stupidity, but he tended to lean towards the third one.

 Quiet as a mouse, he steadily rose from his spot and padded towards the doorway to peek outside. Silence was a good sign, but it never hurt to check. The coast was clear, so Waylon began his trek.

 The hallway was dark, and it was only by the light of his camcorder that he was able to see. Sometimes he swore he could see flashes of his deteriorating sanity, but then again that was probably just the flashing of the battery icon on the screen, alerting him that he needed a new battery. Sometimes he got lonely, sometimes he sat and wept, sometimes he wanted to give up. The vent idea sounded more and more appealing with every corpse passed up, every pile of fly-infested entrails, every documentation of just how fucked up this place truly was. Of course he wanted to get out, of course he wanted to see his family again, but how? How could he outlast this cold?

 The sound of slow footsteps behind him snapped him from his stupor. He picked up his pace, the small blanket flowing like a cape.

 He'd just have to find a way.


	2. Wandering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides*
> 
> also, if you see an end note that has me apologizing for the short length of the chapter because I needed to sleep, disregard it. It was meant for the first chapter, but it seems to be following me. I don't have endnote boxes checked for the first or second chapter, which is weird, because it should be checked for the first one. I initially deleted this chapter and tried to put the note up on the first one, but it just stacks the endnotes and reposting the whole story to get rid of it didn't seem worth it. So, just ignore it.

Waylon sharply turned a corner, nearly taking a nosedive in the process. Even as he clambered over a table and continued speeding down the hallway, his eyes were constantly on the lookout for an escape. Not from the asylum--he knew he wasn't finding that any time soon--but more so from the Variant. A tight space small enough for him to squeeze through, a vent, an open door, something...

His saving grace was an open door, and he wasted no time in diving inside and slamming the door shut. This wasn’t good, this wasn’t good at all, the Variant saw him come in, he had just cornered himself…!

There were no lockers in this room, plus hiding under the bed would be the obvious choice. He would be found for sure. Despite this being far from his first encounter with a Variant, Waylon knew that every chase could be the last. He frantically scanned the room for any means of further escape, and his heart nearly gave out with relief when he noticed the vent. He practically scrambled up the wall, fingers clawing for the opening. Thank God he could fit inside these small things!

Waylon shivered violently as the tight space forced the chilled metal to continuously come in contact with his skin. He prayed that no nearby Variants noticed that the vent was shaking. Despite never being all that religious, Waylon found himself praying more than he ever had, and he had never prayed a day in his life.

Nearing an exit, Waylon frowned at the sight of the corpse blocking his way. What could've possibly fit up in these vents to stuff a dead body inside? And for what purpose?

He decided not to dwell on it. Swallowing his disgust, he attempted to push the corpse. But it wouldn't budge. What? Was it stuck? Oh no, it couldn't be stuck! He had to get through!

Luckily for Waylon, he did have some upper body strength despite his petite shape. He pushed and shoved, but to no avail. Sighing in defeat, he placed his camcorder down and buried his face in his hands. Well, that was it. He would either freeze to death or starve. Seemed like awful ways to go, but at least they weren't messy.

"Stupid thing..." Waylon mumbled, trying to control the cracking of his voice. There was no one around to hear him (well, no one alive), but he hated how pitiful he sounded when he cried. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, his common sense was screaming. Everybody probably sounded pitiful when they cried. He wasn't disagreeing with himself. His hatred still stood, however.

Mutters and curses slipped past his lips before he delivered a frustration-fueled punch to the corpse's arm, effectively cracking it.

"Fuck!" he whisper-yelled, shaking his hand out to numb the pain. That was stupid. Although he didn't have much feeling left in his hands to begin with, bursts of pain still managed to ingrain themselves in his skin until he was writhing. The freeze burn made the pain all that much worse, and it took all the willpower Waylon had left to lie there shaking and clutching his swelling hand.

But at least the corpse-turned ice sculpture had cracked. It was a little strange how the body had frozen over in such a way that it was like real ice, but Waylon supposed anything was possible if it was cold enough. No heat whatsoever. It was probably bound to happen eventually.

With his other hand, he continued to lightly pound at the cracked area, hoping that it would break further. Sure enough, Waylon's prayers were answered and he was able to free himself from the confines of the vent. It was a bit of a challenge to crawl with one hand, but he managed.

It was also tricky getting out of the vent with one hand. He barely felt his feet hit the floor, and holding his camcorder with his teeth was gross. Saliva had slid past his open lips and dripped onto the device, causing him to scrunch his face up a little.

Oh well. He’d live. Probably. His own saliva might have been enough to kill him. But that didn’t make much sense, did it? It shouldn’t. He was probably just losing his mind. More than he already had.

Sighing, Waylon continued his trek, camcorder raised. Every hallway looked the same. Dark and tainted with viscera and miscellaneous body parts. No, he hadn’t gotten used to it in a matter of hours like he thought he would. He still felt sick at every corpse split open or a splatter of blood across a wall like paint. These really weren’t things you could—or should, get used to. One would have to be a homicidal maniac to like this kind of stuff…

…or just really oblivious.

Jeez, where in God’s name was he? He had no sense of direction whatsoever in this place, he could’ve been walking around in circles for all he knew. He heard faint screaming, some Variant was probably having a migraine or hearing voices or something.

_“Aww, ain’t she cute? Look how scared she is.”_

Okay, that Variant sounded real close. Maybe _he_ was hearing voices…

_“Hush up now! Y’all scare her away. And I ain’t ‘bout to be no god’saken bride. Neither are any’a y’all. You right, though, she cute. Gluskin gon’ have her. Shoot, if it’s saving us, he can eat her for all I care.”_

‘Her’? But there were no females in the asylum…

_“Wherever she goin’, we goin’. Catch her and bring her to Gluskin. Maybe he wants her fancy camera, too. Snap some photos.”_

Camera. Camcorder. His camcorder. He was the ‘her’ they were talking about.

Oh no.

“Not again, not again, not again…!” Waylon growled to himself, half in anger and half in panic. Every time he thought he had a break, he was getting chased a second later. This time he wasn’t even sure who it was; one hillbilly psychopath that had several personalities in one body, or four crazy country folk—a family belonging in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

Where were his feet?! They were still there, right?! Panicked, his gaze flickered to his lower half for a second. Yes, yes, he still had feet. Sometimes he forgot they were still there.

“She’s gettin’ away!”

Yes, she was, and it was staying that way.

Waylon didn’t even let his mind wander to who the hell Gluskin was, he just focused on what was in front of him and where he was going. Adrenaline was no cure for fatigue, but still he pressed on, noticing that he was definitely getting somewhere even as he ran for his life.

It was better than walking in circles.


	3. Sickness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the 4th was my birthday! Yay! Happy birthday to me! <3 I meant to have this up yesterday but I got caught up in watching Markiplier's Whistleblower playthrough, then I was hanging out on AC New Leaf, and then I fell asleep. Lolz. Thank you so much for putting up with these long waits. I promise to do better!
> 
> You'll notice that this chapter is following the course of the game, although I shortened the Dennis chase and did some tweaking to make everything fit with the story.

Waylon wasn’t sure if cursing his luck was really worth it at this point, he had already damned it to the deepest part of this hellish asylum, and that was good enough for him. Plus, he had to maintain a constant awareness of his surroundings and have some semblance of direction, even if it was just avoiding obstacles. He took a quick glance behind him, noticing that there was only one Variant rather than the four it sounded like.

The chase was a blur of clambering over things and making unavoidable racket, and Waylon was doing his best to make sense of where he was. Debris and construction items littered the floor, yet the blonde took note of something papery and light under his foot before he was sent careening towards the ground, grunting in pain as his battered body slammed against the miscellaneous rusty objects on the ground, stirring up a torrent of noise.

 _‘Get up, get up…’_ he told himself, panic coursing through his veins, but his body throbbed and ached and he just wanted to lie there for just five seconds. Cracking an eye open, he noticed he seemed to be safe for the time being, but that time was a full minute at best. Lolling his head to the side, his eyes landed on the rumpled piece of paper that caused his fall. He reached for it and smoothed it out the best he could, then attempted to read it.

“Interview with patient Dennis…all four of his expressed personalities?” So that’s what was up with that guy. Waylon just thought he liked talking to himself.

“The clarity of his delusion, and performative nature of his personalities’ expression certainly suggests malingering. I admittedly fall in the Furstenburg camp of categorical—oh, I don’t have time for this!” Waylon whisper-cried, tossing the paper to the side and getting to his feet as quietly as possible.

He hadn’t heard much from Dennis, but that didn’t mean Dennis wasn’t there.

“Rats in the walls! Kill the rats!” Waylon didn’t doubt there were rats in the walls. Dead ones, at least.

“Shut the fuck up about them damned rats. Unless you o’ Timmy on y’all backs wit’ the plague, I don’t wanna hear about them rats ‘til we catch that goat. You got me, boy?”

“Yeah, Pa, I got you.

By the time Waylon reached a staircase, he was ignoring Dennis, especially since the Variant began throwing taunts at him about being a bride or some nonsense like that. Descending the stairway filled him with dread, and his heartbeat didn’t seem to have any intention—or capability—of slowing down. At least Dennis wasn’t chasing him anymore.

It seemed even colder down there, or maybe that was the dread chilling him from within. Now that the adrenaline was dying down, that bone-chilling spike of cold was back, attacking his feet from the floor and working its way up. It was a wonder his feet hadn’t become frostbitten by now.

Raising the camcorder to his eye, Waylon clicked on the night vision and continued his journey. He passed sewing table after sewing table, and a question of who’s vocation was sewing and knitting yet ended up in an asylum for the criminally insane popped up in his static-filled brain. Anything was possible, it just seemed a bit odd. Sewing and knitting were generally seen as calming activities, and criminal behavior did not seem very becoming of someone who enjoyed those things. But who was he to judge? Working at a place like Mount Massive didn’t seem very becoming of a sweetheart like him.

 _‘Anything’s possible,’_ he reiterated to himself.

Waylon kept on trucking, passing more and more sewing tables, absentmindedly wondering if any of them worked. The lighting was a little better in the room up ahead, so he lowered his camcorder.

He was still musing about the functionality of the sewing machines when he turned a corner and was met with an awful sight.

A beheaded male corpse was sat on a table, the cut clean, yet messy and bloody as expected. That wasn’t even the worst part. Flesh mounds—literal mounds of flesh—had been sewn onto the chest area to resemble breasts. But with how cold the asylum was, the flesh was chipping, and oozing blood had dried black and crusted around the stitches. And _that_ wasn’t even the worst part.

The worst part was the fact that the corpse had been castrated, and a head, whether it belonged to that corpse or another, had been shoved into the bloody hole to mimic childbirth.

Even the maggots had frozen inside the eye sockets.

Despite the chill in his veins, Waylon felt something hot rising in his throat.

The camcorder fell to the ground, as did Waylon to his knees, and whatever contents had miraculously remained in his stomach were upchucked onto that cold, hard floor in front of the disgusting display. That was the most grotesque, vile, stomach-churning thing he had seen in the asylum yet. And he had seen a good amount of things that fell into one of those three categories. Tears sprung to his eyes as his lungs convulsed and his throat burned. The stench of his own bile overpowered the smell of blood and death, if only for a moment. Now he was cold, tired, and sick.

There was no way he was lying on the floor, near his vomit and that…that _thing_ , no matter how sick he was. No. No way.

Reaching for his camcorder, he clutched it tightly in his shaky hand and crawled around the corner, his arms wobbly and vision wavering. The static in his brain was getting louder. Just how insane _was_ that patient?

Waylon didn’t manage to get to his feet until his crawling came to a halt in front of two wooden double doors. His free hand gripped the left handle for dear life as he raised himself from the floor. Noticing that the door didn’t open, he concluded that the doors were locked. Turning away from them, he raised his camcorder and pushed forward, no matter how badly he wanted to curl up somewhere and just cry and scream and go **absolutely fucking insane** just like every goddamned psychopath in this hell on earth. He wanted to abandon his sanity and vandalize everything, he wanted to toss the camcorder out the window and stop being the Whistleblower, stop bearing the burden of revealing the truth all on his own, to have someone put him out of his misery.

…And he just saw someone run by.

The _*piiiing*_ of the night vision sounded in his ear.

Oh, how he so _wanted_ all of those things.

At least maybe soon he’d be cold, tired, sick, and dead.

“ _Achoo!_ Oh, God, no…” He whined, wiping his nose the best he could with his sleeve. Now he was getting really sick! Not just nauseous sick, now he had an infection, too!

“Stupid cold…now I’m sick…and sleepy…” His muttering was broken up by his constant sniffling.

It was a struggle to stay awake, let alone keep the camcorder up. But falling asleep would no doubt lead to never waking up again.

It was sewing table after sewing table, and honestly, Waylon was beginning to itch for a change of scenery. An old timey tune was playing like some sort of background music, and it was a miracle that some of the outlets in this practically prehistoric nuthouse still supplied an electric charge.

The next room was much bigger, but didn’t have much for show. Wooden tables against the wall were piled with old boxes that encased God knew what, while spiders danced upon webs of silk between two table legs. Empty boxes had been shoved to the side, reeking of moth balls as Waylon walked past them. Wooden chairs were placed in random parts of the room, and shelves dust stood sadly against the wall, collecting dust.

Waylon stopped at the front of the room, giving it a quick once-over. Nothing of any importance, not even a battery. Just cold furniture and cold air and cold cold cold…

 _“Achoo!”_ he sneezed, groaning in annoyance as he used his clean sleeve was used as a makeshift tissue. And his jumpsuit wasn’t even that clean, which meant he was probably getting sicker from all of the germs he was wiping onto his face.

Sighing, he turned to try the double doors behind him before continuing his exploration. He expected them to be locked, which they were, but one thing he certainly didn’t expect, was to hear anyone’s voice.

“Darling!”

A shriek ripped itself from Waylon’s throat as his heart threatened to break through his ribcage. His head shot up as fear was released into his veins like a toxin, coursing alongside his blood. A man was standing behind the doors, his face damaged and blistered—no doubt aftereffects of the Engine. His black hair appeared neat and tidy, styled into an attractive undercut that even caught Waylon’s attention. He was pressed up against the glass like a kid to a candy shop window, his smile large and foreboding.

God, that smile was creepy…but also somewhat endearing…and that face…so familiar…

Waylon was about to tell himself to snap out of it, but a sneeze beat him to the punch. The man’s expression changed to one of surprise and worry, and the sound of mucus splattering to the floor rang in Waylon’s ears. It wasn’t a pleasant sound.

“Darling, are you sick? Oh no, no, no, we must get you better before anything else! Don’t worry, I’ll be right over.” And then, with haste in his step, he left.

Waylon knew he probably should’ve been ducking behind something to hide, but the unexpected warmth in his chest seemed to be rooting him to the spot. And he wasn’t sure why.

Well, at least he was a little warmer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so apparently the end note about me needing to sleep is following me to every chapter. So just keep ignoring it.


	4. The Groom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's about damn time...
> 
> So, after a short hiatus from writing and having an epiphany, I have come back to one of my greatest loves. With it, I have brought you a new chapter. With classes starting back up on Wednesday, I'll actually have an excuse to take forever in a day to write, but with my drive reinvigorated, I like to think I actually, truly will do better.
> 
> But hey, we'll believe that when we see it. You and me both. ^^' so for now, just enjoy the newest chapter of Outlast: Frostbite!

It felt awkward just standing in place like an idiot. But what else was he supposed to do? Hiding didn’t seem necessary in this instance—and that was usually his go-to option. This Variant didn’t seem like he would hurt him, but Waylon knew better than to judge things by outside appearances. He had learned that one the hard way.

He was paying for it now.

“Did I frighten you? I’m awfully sorry, I didn’t mean to,” came the man’s voice from afar.

Waylon smiled wryly. _‘Of course you frightened me, didn’t you see me jump ten feet in the air?’_ It had been obvious that the man had given him a heart attack, and mentally insane or not, the question seemed almost mocking. But maybe that was just him.

“We’ve met before, haven’t we? I know I’ve seen your face.”

 _‘I was thinking the exact same thing,’_ Waylon thought. He had grown accustomed to thinking to himself rather than talking out loud, as any type of noise usually spelled trouble for him in a facility where the unfriendly patrons tended to give chase should they hear.

“Maybe…just before I woke up. Though it seems like a dream now, being here with you. I’m ever so sorry you had to walk around this disgusting place while sick. My poor darling. I hate when you suffer without me there to take care of you. But I’m here now. I’m here and I’m going to nurture you back to health. Just like you’ll do for me and the little ones someday.”

Waylon wasn’t sure what in God’s name this guy was talking about, but he had a feeling it was in his best interest to play along. Perhaps the man could be of assistance in getting out of this crazy place.

“Don’t worry, darling. I know you’ve been all alone up to this point, now all that will change. You don’t have to be alone anymore. And then…then I’ll fill you up.”

Waylon’s eyebrows creased at the odd, almost sexual wording. _‘Fill me up?’_

The warmth in Waylon’s chest hadn’t dissipated, and quite frankly, it was beginning to bother him. He had a wife and kids to get home to! There was no room inside of him for…whatever this man wanted to fill him up with!

…It wasn’t like he could get pregnant, anyway…

Waylon’s feet seemed to move on their own, leading him further into the darkness and toward the man’s hypnotizing voice. It was somewhat surreal, to be a few yards away from certain death and walking toward it. For all he knew, the fancy attire could be a façade, and the man could be on his way to gut him.

“Darling? I’m almost there, I promise.”

He could string him up and leave him as a sacrifice to the Walrider, or maybe discard his corpse to someone who would consume whatever remained. There had to be other cannibalistic Variants besides Frank…

Maybe he was into necrophilia and would keep his corpse for his own sexual tortures…

“Darling! There you are!”

Before Waylon had time to react, a strong pair of arms engulfed him in a hug, and the strange scent of blood and freshly cut wood was suffocating. Or maybe it was the strength of the hug. Whichever it was, he really was having difficulty breathing and it was hard to determine someone’s identity when you had to worry about losing consciousness.

“Can’t—b-breathe…” he wheezed out, and a look of horror overtook the man’s face and he released Waylon instantly.

“Oh darling, forgive me, I’m just ever so happy to see you again. I missed you and your sweet face and soft hair and soft skin and your lovely bone structure…”

Then, as if a switch was pulled, something clicked in Waylon’s head. Like a memory had suddenly lit up and he clearly remembered just who this man was.

How did he forget?

He was the only one who really believed in him, after all…

_“You don’t have to do this, you know. Listen to them. You’re better than this. Better than them. You don’t look like you like to hurt people,” Eddie’s voice rang clear in Waylon’s ears from inside the tube he was trapped in. Currently, he was the first tester to be subjected to a new concept for Walrider control: liquid-based nano concentration. It was a recent alternative to dream therapy where the patient would be placed in a tube of sleep-inducing, pale-colored liquid, and nanites would flood the tube to enter the body while it was restoring itself through slumber, allowing the nanites to slip inside and assist in the restoration process._

_“I don’t,” Waylon murmured without looking up from what he was typing on the monitor._

_“Then why are you? I know you can stop this, yet you choose to encourage it. Why?”_

_Waylon bit his lip to keep the tears at bay. He couldn’t answer himself the countless times he asked, and apparently neither could God, so how was_ he _supposed to answer Eddie?_

_“I don’t have a choice,” he whimpered in reply. “If I don’t, they’ll put me in your place._

_Eddie frowned. Of course they would. What better way to keep a secret than to never let it free? No one ever escaped from Mount Massive, and it wasn’t really the first thing on your mind when you were batshit insane anyway._

_Waylon continued to type, but the trembling of his hands hadn’t gone unnoticed._

_Silence passed between the two, save the Waylon’s typing, and Eddie absentmindedly wondered how many letters and numbers did one person need to type before initiating an experiment. And then his eyes began to wander up and down the software engineer’s body…_

_“You have amazing bone structure, you know.”_

_Waylon froze. Now, he was no Casanova, far from it, but he knew for a fact that bone structure wasn’t something people usually got complimented on. “What?”_

_“Your bone structure. It’s quite lovely.”_

_“…Oh.” Who the hell says things like that? How could Eddie even see something like that? “Um, thanks.” He offered a warm smile, to which Eddie returned._

_Now if only that fuzzy feeling in his chest would go away._

“Eddie…?” Waylon murmured in realization against the tattered fabric of the groom’s vest.

“Yes, darling, I’m here. Come quickly, we must get you someplace to rest.”

Waylon had no chance of arguing or refuting once he was pulled along.

**. | .**

Waylon allowed himself to be led through an open door, which led to bloodstained hallways and pitch black bloodstained hallways. Eddie didn’t seem deterred by the darkness, and Waylon chalked it up to him being used to it. When one is blinded, they find their own way to see.

 _‘Love makes a house a home,’_ the blonde read, shuddering at the twisted implications that that phrase held written in blood like it was on the wall.

“Darling, I can feel you shaking,” Eddie told him, voice laced with concern. “You must have the chills. Poor girl, so sick, so pale.”

Waylon frowned, somewhat offended. He wasn’t that pale. Was he?

After passing through large rooms splattered with blood and scattered feminine mannequins, the two finally arrived at what appeared to be a workshop. The first thing that caught Waylon’s eye was the long, blood-drenched table with a saw attached to it. What in God’s name…?

Limbs and appendages hung from the ceiling by rope, and the floor was sticky with drying blood. It felt icky under Waylon’s feet. The sewing needle was jammed with wedges of flesh, as if Eddie had been stitching skin together. The stench of viscera and death seemed stronger, if that was even possible.

What horrible acts of criminal insanity went on in this part of the asylum?

“Welcome to my workshop.”

Before Waylon could ask, a sneeze stopped the words before they could escape. A thin line of clear fluid dripped from his reddened nose, followed by a nasal moan of discomfort.

“Oh my goodness, how do I keep forgetting my main objective? I’d probably forget my own head if it wasn’t attached. I guess I’m just so happy to finally welcome you into my home…” Eddie said wistfully, tugging Waylon toward a relatively clean-looking mattress a little further away.

“Here, darling. Rest,” Eddie said as he coaxed the other man to lay down. “I apologize for the mess, some whore was snooping around here and she had to be dealt with. You understand, don’t you?”

Uh, no. “Of course.”

The comforted look on Eddie’s face was surprisingly putting him at ease. But the feeling was short-lived, as he broke out in chills, shivering violently. It was too goddamned cold! It should’ve been illegal for anywhere to be this cold.

“Oh dear, here’s a blanket right behind you,” Eddie said, kneeling down as he reached over the shivering body to pull a large brown fleece blanket over it. “There, there. Nice and warm.”

Wanting to make Waylon as comfortable as possible, Eddie decided to go the extra mile and fluff the pillow. The gesture didn’t go unappreciated.

“Comfy?” he asked.

“Mhm,” was the only reply Waylon could manage. All of the fatigue and stress and drowsiness he had been forced to ignore was coming back to him, and he was dozing off faster than he could think.

“I’m going to get you something to eat. I don’t want to see you out of bed, darling.” And with that, Eddie stood up and left, but not before one last longing gaze at the sleeping blonde.

And Waylon’s fleeting thought before practically passing out asleep was that, insane asylum or not, he could get used to this.


	5. Home Cooking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I think this chapter is shorter than the others, I was kinda rushing so this is mostly a filler chapter but it advances the story a little at the end. Classes have been keeping my attention, but I've been trying my best to not let too much time go by before I update again. So, without further ado, enjoy chapter 5! ^v^

Finding salvageable food was proving harder than Eddie thought—hell, finding a pen on the damned floor was hard, let alone finding food. He had checked the somewhat-functional mini fridge he had in the back room, but there was nothing edible; only a human heart floating in a jar and some murky-looking liquid that was probably water at one point in time.

Well, technically that heart was edible, but he didn’t want to join Frank Manera’s cannibal club, and his darling probably didn’t, either.

Where in the world was he going to find food for his darling? Poor girl, he had to show up with something quick! He knew of his own infamous reputation in the asylum, and knew for a fact that no one, depleted of sanity or not, was stupid enough to go snooping around his workshop. Sanity and stupidity were two different things. So at least his darling was safe.

But where was he supposed to find food for her?

Suddenly, a piercing cold permeated his body, sending him into a spiral of shivers and falling to his knees. With his immune system strength and somewhat better nourishing than Waylon, he had managed to fight off the viruses dancing through the chilled air for quite some time. But even his body would falter eventually, if he did not continue to take care of it.

His quest then became to find a meal for two.

Now, Eddie was considered one of the six prison leaders. They had authority that no minor patient had, and rarely ever left their territories. Anyone under their jurisdiction was kept in check, like how Dennis heeded Eddie’s every command. Unauthorized entry into these territories typically resulted in death, unless it was a special case, like Waylon stumbling into Eddie’s territory. A leader would only seek out another leader if it was absolutely necessary.

This was absolutely necessary.

As much as it sickened Eddie to think about it, he had no choice.

It was time to see what The Cook was cooking.

**. | .**

Just a few minutes prior, Eddie had been dismissing the mere idea of stomaching one of Frank’s…err, _creations,_ and now he was dragging his feet through the desolate hallways towards Frank’s domain. He couldn’t believe he was doing this, but he had to provide, had to show up for his girl.

There was no door, so Eddie just walked right in. What appeared to be a limb boiling in a bloody pot on a stove nearly made the groom upchuck when he saw it, because what the actual fuck. Did the cannibal manage to make a fire? He was regretting this decision more and more with every step he took, but he couldn’t turn back, his feet wouldn’t let him.

“I know you’re in here, Manera,” Eddie called, his hand unconsciously inching closer towards the handle of the knife in his pocket as he walked.

The sounds of someone devouring food met his ears, and they were not pretty sounds. Gulping, slurping, and a gross, wet tearing sound were amongst the noises. How revolting.

“Manera?” Eddie called again, this time a bit firmer. He really wasn’t in any rush to interrupt the man’s midnight snack, but also really didn’t have time to fuck around. He needed some food, and then he needed to _leave._

He peeked around a tall piece of equipment hidden in shadow, seeing Frank standing over what appeared to be a body—or what was left of it. The area was dimly lit, but no light was needed to know that he was bare—for the most part. To keep warm, Frank had decided to make himself a set of skin clothing. Literal skin clothing. Clothing made out of the skin of his victims. While it wasn’t the most efficient way to stay toasty, as he sometimes found himself gnawing at the garments, it was all he had. The peculiar stitching of his genital area always befuddled Eddie, as it seemed familiar to the stitching he would plan on doing to his brides once their vulgarities had been removed. Did Frank do his own surgery? Maybe he had a lover Eddie didn’t know about.

“Hm?” Frank grunted in an almost animalistic way as his head whipped behind him to face the intruder, revealing his stuffed cheeks and bloodstained beard. His saw lay on the neck of the body, teetered to one side. It was probably bone-chilling to touch.

Eddie showed no fear, however, he couldn’t unclench his fists. Who knew, Frank might have gone rogue on him.

Worries of a bloody battle ensuing disappeared when Frank’s eyebrows shot up to his forehead, he swallowed, and a grin lit up his face. “Eddie!”

Eddie _really_ wished that Frank followed the Asian mannerisms of not using a person’s first name if you didn’t know them that well.

“Hello, Manera,” Eddie replied formally, keeping an air of poise around himself. They were mere acquaintances, not real friends like Frank thought they were for some reason.

“What brings you down here? Finally decided to stop by for a bite?”

“Not exactly. I need you to whip up something for me and my bride.”

Frank pouted at this. “Another one? Man, you go through brides like children do birthday cake.”

Eddie pretended to ignore that comment. “So can you make us something or not?”

A knowing grin found its place on Frank’s lips. “Sure I can. After all, if you’re bringing food to him, things must be getting serious…”

Eddie couldn’t hold back a sigh. “I swear sometimes you act like a gossiping schoolgirl…”

As prison leaders, Eddie and Frank had an innate agreement to keep out of the other’s way while keeping the inmates in check. But Frank had seemed to take a liking to Eddie, and it made the dark-haired man quite uncomfortable. He never knew if it was because Frank really wanted to be friends or because he was planning on eating him.

“So what’s he like?”

The groom blinked. “What?”

“What’s he like? Your bride?”

“Oh…well, he’s got lovely blonde hair, very soft. Delicate features, like an angel. Incredible bone structure, too. And he’s got these eyes that just…remind me of my mother’s pudding…” Eddie began to reminisce about his mother’s homemade confection, with just the right amount of love in every chocolatey spoonful. “Such delectable chocolate.”

“You like chocolate, huh?” Frank asked as he began to peel the skin off of an arm with some sharp tool.

Eddie smirked. “I do. Surprised? I fancied sweets as a child, and my sweet tooth has been around ever since.”

“Jeez, I wouldn’t have pegged you for a sugar daddy,” Frank said, subtly jabbing at Eddie’s desire to become a father someday.

Eddie cringed slightly, caught off guard. “Ngh—just finish the food."

Frank let out a chuckle and did as he was told. Several of the ‘spare parts’ had frozen over, which didn’t surprise him in the least. His saw was required to chop up the pieces into a boiling pot, which Eddie had refused to look at. The whole cannibalism deal was a big bunch of nope for him.

Absentmindedly, Eddie glanced towards a clock. Half past 2 AM. He wondered how long his darling would sleep.

Poor thing, so tired.

**. | .**

“Little pig! Come out here!” Chris Walker growled as he pounded on the worn metal door, expecting it to break any second under the strength of his fist.

“Dammit, leave me alone!” Miles called back, pressing as much of his weight against the door as he possibly could.

How long had he been trapped in this room? Hard to say. Chris Walker, more like Chris Stalker. The bastard had been on Miles’ tail since he left the Room of Assorted Heads. The cold had been gnawing at his strength and turning his fingers blue. He wouldn’t have been surprised if he lost one or two! It was too damn cold for this!

“I c-came here to find a story, n-not freeze to death. Or die,” he muttered, glancing back at the clock on the wall.

Half past 2 AM.

 


	6. Hello, Waylon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is kinda fluffy and builds Eddie and Waylon's relationship a little more. I feel like I've been losing my writer's touch, or just the ability to write several interesting sentences to create a compelling story. But I suppose I'll find out after someone reads this, if they get through the whole thing. I dunno. I just feel like I'm slipping.
> 
> Again, if you see an endnote about any chapter besides the first one being short because I was tired, ignore it.

It took a hell of a lot of willpower and self-control for Eddie to carry the wrapped-up dish, the sheer knowledge of what it was made from nearly made him chuck it at the wall in disgust. It was food for his darling, that was what he kept telling himself, in hopes that maybe he’d block out thoughts of Frank’s peculiar catering choices and replace them with thoughts of his darling’s smile once she tasted the fruit of Eddie’s struggle.

Or Eddie would rub soothing circles on her back while she threw up in a corner.

 He winced at the thought of being the cause of his darling’s stomach issues, but what else was he to do? Let her starve? It was either Frank or nothing. Over the course of an inmate’s stay at Mount Massive, food became less and less of a tangible desire and more of an abstract idea. That didn’t make it any less of a necessity, however.

It didn’t take long for Eddie to set foot back into comfortable territory, and find his darling once more, still fast asleep. It seemed like a crime to wake her up, but only the dead sleep forever.

He gently rested a hand on her shoulder, and began to shake. “Darling. Darling, wake up, I’ve brought you some food.”

“Hmm…” Waylon grunted, squinting his shut eyes. His lashes began to flutter as he was re-exposed to his environment, and he suddenly remembered where he was. He shot up as if struck by lightning, but slowed his roll when he noticed the mattress underneath him and the blanket shielding him from the cold.

“Darling?”

Waylon whipped his head around, heart pounding. Eddie could tell that the comfort of sleep seemed to have disoriented his darling, the warmth and security a sharp contrast to the caution and I-could-die-at-any-moment mindset that she was so used to having.

“E-Eddie?”

Ah…those chocolatey eyes. Eddie could get lost in them. His darling truly didn’t realize what a beauty she was.

“Yes, it’s me. I’m here now, you don’t have to be afraid anymore.” Eddie reassured her, placing a warm hand on Waylon’s back to rub soothing circles through the fabric of his jumpsuit. “Here, darling.” The plate was placed on Waylon’s lap, drawing his attention.

“What’s this?” Waylon asked, carefully examining the thing wrapped in tin foil. It seemed like food, but you never knew with Mount Massive. And even if it was food, it probably wasn’t safe for human consumption.

“It’s something I had whipped up for you,” Eddie replied with a sheepish smile. “I, uh, thought you might’ve been hungry. I’m not sure when you last ate. It wasn’t my first option in terms of food, but, well, there really isn’t anything else around here.”

Eddie’s smile must’ve been the art of an angel, because Waylon found himself slowly melting inside every time he saw it. He quickly but carefully peeled away the foil, eager to discover the contents of his meal, as he himself couldn’t remember the last time he ate and didn’t know when he would eat again. How sweet of Eddie to bring him something!

Unbeknownst to Waylon, Eddie had been twiddling his fingers, urging himself to open his mouth and speak to his girl. Why was he so nervous? None of the others had ever made him this nervous. In fact, it was the other way around. It was different now. Was it a good different? Perhaps. Although he really didn’t appreciate that feeling of vulnerability, like he was suddenly susceptible to more than just a sickness from the cold air around him, but he was startled out of his thoughts when a loud retch tore itself from Waylon’s throat.

“D-Darling? Are you alright?” He asked, concern thick in his voice.

“I’m…I’m fine.” Waylon’s voice was nasally, as if he couldn’t breathe out of his nose. A hand was clamped over the lower half of his face. “Just…it reeks. Of blood. And death.”

Eddie sighed. He should’ve seen that reaction coming. “It’s fine, darling, I’ll get you some real food. But, um, listen, there was something I had been meaning to ask you, and I feel rather foolish asking you only now, I should’ve asked earlier, but…uh…I don’t think I ever got your name.”

Was that what Eddie had been fidgeting about? He was nervous to ask for Waylon’s name?

“Oh, it’s Waylon,” he said with a smile. “Waylon Park. Sorry, I guess we were never formally introduced.”

“Waylon…” Eddie allowed the syllables to dance across his tongue, savoring them like a sweet confection. Something about the way they tasted pushed Eddie’s buttons in all the right places, exciting him to the point of a shudder running through him. He could brush it off as just being cold. If his ears could twitch, they’d be doing so happily. Waylon. He liked that name.

The plate had been put to the side and shoved away, red fluid sloshing and spilling over the edge to pool on the floor in a murky, germ-infested puddle. It was sickening for Waylon, to think he almost ate that, and suddenly eating was the last thing on his mind. Oh well, it was the thought that counted.

“So how are you feeling, Waylon?” Eddie asked, scooching a bit closer.

Whoa. Waylon was not expecting that burst of warmth in his stomach. It was nice that Eddie cared about his wellbeing.

“Well,” he began, “I’m still tired, but I do feel more rested than before. I thought I’d never sleep again. I’m surprised I didn’t have any nightmares or anything like that.”

Eddie nodded in approval. “Good, good. Say,” he said, an idea coming to him, “would you like to help me…clean up a little? I’m awfully sorry about the mess, I haven’t had a chance to make the place decent. If I had known I’d be sweeping you off your feet tonight, I would’ve spruced up a bit. And it’s terribly improper of me to be asking you to help me clean up my mess, isn’t it? Forgive me, Waylon, I—“

“No,” Waylon said, silencing Eddie. “I…I’ll help you.”

Part of Waylon wished he would’ve taken another look at the… _mess_ that Eddie had left before coming to that decision, but another part of him just wanted to help Eddie. And another part of him was still racking his brain for an escape plan. And all parts of him were befuddled on why the room was so very warm.

**. | .**

Miles wasn’t sure how he was managing to stand his ground against the behemoth, and not that he was complaining, but his strength was fading quicker than a flickering candle and, subsequently, both him and the door were flung back to the far side of the room. The loud _bang_ of the metal door crashing against the floor combined with Chris’ growling was the last thing he heard before the impact of his skull against the floor cut off his consciousness.

Chains jingled as Chris took padded into the room, staring down the motionless body of the reporter. He growled low in his throat, how easy it would be to rip the brunette’s head off right now, and he wouldn’t even struggle, wouldn’t even feel it, but something inside of Chris wouldn’t let him do it. It would be against protocol to leave any intruder alive, to let him go free was a rare exception, and there was no way that Chris had any special feelings for this man. Absolutely not, no way. His feelings had been left behind a long time ago. He couldn’t allow emotions to interfere with his duties.

…Right?

“Little pig…” he murmured, his colossal hands reaching for Miles’ torso. He was all too aware of his own strength, and held the body as if it were a mouse to a human. Beady eyes landed on a vent, and while he had no intentions of even attempting to fit his hand through, he could tell Miles was thin and lithe enough to fit inside.

It was a bit of a struggle to get Miles’ body into the vent, he had to make sure he wasn’t gripping or shoving too hard, but with enough force that he would go far enough into the vent to remain there and not fall back to the floor in a heap.

“Little more…” he said, face contorted in concentration rather than irritation. With one last little push, Miles was as far in as Chris could get him, and he had spent too much time being too careful with one man he didn’t really care for. He had a perimeter to secure. Again.

“Don’t let me catch you again,” he growled, turning to take his leave.

**Author's Note:**

> It's shoooort, I'm sowwy. But I need sleep.


End file.
